


Nothing Happens to Me

by PeytonGrey



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bondage, Caretaking, Control, Discipline, Discovery, Dom/sub, Dominance, Experience, Explicit Sexual Content, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Pain, Plot and Smut, Possessiveness, Sex, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Slash, Smut, Submission, Trust, Violence, explicit - Freeform, m/m - Freeform, safeword, sherlock/john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 17:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeytonGrey/pseuds/PeytonGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hapless occurrences foster new experiences. Pain imitates pleasure. A series of unfortunate events strengthens the bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am in the process of working on this. I have about six chapters completed with a mapped out plot for ten more. Will update this with installments. Many of the chapters are short, but I intend for this to be a very long fic. I welcome constructive criticism and feedback!
> 
> Another caveat: There is plot involved here, however, much of the beginning activity sets up and reinforces later relations. Also, it is good to remember that "withholding" is absolutely a kink and very much plays into the setting here.

_It's not as though I think it is problematic in any way_ , John thought to himself. _It's none of my fucking business regardless. Nothing happens to me._ It was a brisk morning in late November - those mornings when the air chills your entire body, but not cold enough to force you to find a source of warmth. Crisp enough to keep your interest, and cool enough to make the streets somewhat desolate, for those who groan on about the changing of the seasons. John was walking along the Thames past Tower Bridge near Southwark. Day was turning to evening, and the city was starting to get dark. He was mumbling his thoughts under his breath, trying to smooth some clarity in his mind about the strange happenings of the past month or two. 

 _I mean, fuck if I care really_. His shoulder hit into the arm of another - he scowled to himself, then mustered an apology. "Sorry," he spoke softly to himself. He thought outloud, "Sorry for what? Bumping into some sod that is probably part of London's wealthiest? Going home to his quaint little family? Thinks he is fucking brilliant and does not understand the degree of his luck? He could use a bloody shoulder bump, I'm not sorry..."

"Well you've got _fucking brilliant_  right, but there is no such thing as luck John, the world is run on pragmatism and empiricism. Things happen as a consequence of a series of actions, not by chance."

"What? What? How did you … I, bollocks Sherlock, where did you come from?" John responded, "and I wasn't talking about you." 

"I realize you weren't talking _about_  me, but rather about the man you bumped into, which happened to _be_ me." Sherlock replied with a look of indifference, staring off somewhere past John's gaze. "Quickly John, stop delaying, we're late."

"For what?" John said, exasperated and quizzical. 

"For a murder of course." And with that Sherlock escaped like a shadow into the chilled air, John pausing for only a moment picked up the pace and followed him to wherever he was headed.

\-------------------------------

Similar to the threshold between a dreaming and waking state, John, his mind hazy, took to a steady run throughout the city, dodging cars, escaping behind buildings. It was Sherlock who could decipher routes throughout London in seconds, but for John - he was entirely reliant on following Sherlock's shape through the dimly lit city. 

He placed his trust in Sherlock, in all things, but foremost in their work. John wasn't entirely sure where they were headed, and the travel seemed to take hours - he was sweating in his coat despite the chill against his face. His mind racing faster than his body, he turned a corner down a tight alleyway where he swore he thought Sherlock had run…

And just as he made the turn into that slim corridor, a dark figure grabbed him, forcefully held his hands behind his back - another placed a gun in his mouth and together they lowered John to the ground. _Late for a murder…_ John thought, _of course_ … as if this situation was more of an annoyance to him than a danger. The figure holding the gun bent down low, shoving the barrel of the gun further into his throat, finger on the trigger. 

John gagged slightly at the pressure, but then widened his throat for the damage. He always tried to be obedient in situations like these. The man (or at least John presumed it was a man...both were disguised and he was so tired that his perception was skewed…) who was holding his hands together tied them intricately with a rope, then locked the knot. No one was speaking, all actions seemed calculated. _This is a set up._ John considered the implications of trying to fight back, trying to free his hands from the ropes while he was effectively blowing the cold barrel of a gun. 

The man with the gun pulled it out from his mouth, and the two of them picked up John and threw him, hands bound and locked, into a small hole in the wall of the alleyway - pushed him in entirely, and within moments hit him in the head with the grip of the gun - knocked John unconscious and left him to lay, hidden, in a pool of his own blood. 


	2. Chapter 2

There was an immediate realization that John was missing. A few blocks ahead Sherlock stopped for a millisecond to consider if he should go back for his companion.

_Work…John…Work_... _Case...John..._

He retraced his steps, but this time not on the ground. He jumped up onto an apartment stairway and chose instead to travel between the barricades of buildings. It was nearly nine in the evening at this point, and if anyone stopped John, they clearly had a reason to do so. 

As Sherlock retraced his steps back toward John, a deep sense of frustration overcame him. Was he supposed to protect his companion? He felt angry of his uncertainty. They had been in many dangerous situations before, but they were always equally prepared for a less than ideal outcome. John had followed Sherlock, and it was as if he led him into a trap.  _Trust. John always talks about trust. Trust is fallible._ Sherlock pondered as he scaled the rooftops.  _Where is John Watson?_

 ------------------------------

Unconscious, still laying cold and bloody in a tight, cramped hole in that dark alleyway, there was nothing for John to do but wait. 

"I lost him in Brixton," Sherlock said to himself. He made his way back to the ground level and took to a run. They had been traveling due South from Southwark, intending to get to Wandsworth Park. Once in Brixton Sherlock scavenged for any sign of John, when he realized a man walking with his head down Nelson's Row. Sherlock purposefully bumped into the man as he was walking.

That was all the information he needed: _Three guns on person, two in front coat pocket, third in left pant leg. One razor secured on the inside of the left forearm, knife in right bootleg. Hands covered with fingerless gloves, first inside pockets to hide, once bumped the hands come out and secure the inner coat lining and quickly check other areas with weaponry. Hands show signs of fresh blood._

The man turned around in a fury, and quickly launched for the razorblade on his forearm, but Sherlock immediately ducked and kicked his calves until he fell onto the pavement. While on the ground he sprayed the man with pepper-spray and leaned close to his face whispering, "Next time you touch him you will find yourself rotting in a Mongolian prison cell."  

Without further delay Sherlock dipped into the dark corridor which John was laying unconscious. He stopped at the entryway and immediately got to the ground like a spider. He realized someone had been forcefully brought to the ground, there were small, fresh blood dropletscovering the damp concrete. He leant his face to the blood to smell: _Blood, Must, Whisky._ He crawled further down the alleyway, touching the base of the wall, his fingers dragging against the brick wall, feeling for an answer. 

Then he saw him. " _JOHN!_ " he shouted as he rushed toward his body. Sherlock carefully dragged him out of the crevice. As he picked up his head Sherlock's entire hand was covered with his companion's wet blood running down the length of his arm. _Oh please no_. Sherlock ran his right hand across John's temple where the grip of the gun wounded him sharply. He could feel the weakness in John's body, _two ribs broken, non-critical._

Like a relic he hoisted John's cold, wasting body up onto his chest. He quizzically looked him in the face, trying to read signs of assurance that he was well. Sherlock knew he was alive, but had little reason to believe he was okay. _John, open your eyes_. No response. 

Panic. A sense of urgency came over him, and Sherlock raised John up over his shoulder and quickly carried him through the under-lit streets of London back to 221B Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

He dragged John up to 221B Baker St., attempting to be quiet as to not wake Mrs. Hudson - since it was approximately three in the morning. 

He carefully lay John on the floor in front of the fireplace. Taking off his coat and throwing it to the chair Sherlock grabbed tissue and began to wipe some of the blood from his face.

_Wake up John_ , Sherlock professed to himself.  _Please_. He hadn't the slightest idea of what to do to fix it. Thoughts cascaded through his mind.  _Who wanted to hurt him and why?_

_They seemed to take nothing…Protection. Work. John. Companion._

Sherlock analyzed his partner, deducing anything he could about the attack.

_He is breathing with difficulty…There are cuts all around his mouth…Lips, chapped. Bruises forming around his temple…his jawline. His fingers, cut up, His wrists bloody and bruised._ Sherlock lay his head ever so softly against John's chest, "John, wake." Sherlock announced quietly. He moved his head from John's chest to his mouth. Listening to his breathing, Sherlock's ear brushed lightly against his bloodstained lips. "John, please." Sherlock demanded even quieter this time. 

"I am here," John managed to whisper with a rasp into Sherlock's ear, who was seemingly  waiting patiently for his response. The sound of John's voice echoed throughout his entire body, the softest answer from John's lips screamed so loudly through his mind…Sherlock contained that feeling of relief and joy to himself.  _Hit by a train_. 

"Right then. Good." He spoke out loud, immediately sat back on his legs, hovering above John's body.

Eyes still closed, John reached his hand across the floor. It first encountered Sherlock's knee. Too weak to try John rested his hand there against Sherlock, and managed to take a deep breath. Sherlock glanced at John's cut up, bloody hand against him and followed his gaze up the length of John's arm. His coat was ripped, blood-soaked, and dirty.

Further up he noticed the light was caught against his neck, perfectly illuminating the shadow of his chin. He continued watching the air escape from John's lips slowly, but willfully and with so much contempt. He noticed cob-webs and soil stuck in John's hair, barely loosening from the blood which held it back. He looked at John's eyes, closed, barely moving with no activity beneath the surface. Sherlock considered his calm in that moment - John knew he was safe, although so unsure of what had happened. He was slowly coming to consciousness, but had no intention of rushing. Sherlock looked down at his partner, thought of the difficulty John would cause if he had died. _Perhaps this is what luck is_ , Sherlock thought to himself. He reached out to touch John's hand at the thought, skin hovering above skin, but retracted before the contact.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat with John until he began to rouse. It had been a few hours, and the flat was very dark and equally quiet. The only light that shone was a small lamp in the corner of the room that only half-illuminated John's face, but Sherlock's image was entirely obscured. As John began to open his eyes he looked for something familiar, he scanned around him and noticed he was still holding Sherlock's knee. Wearily he looked up at his friend and before he could speak Sherlock leaned over close to John and placed his hand on John's neck, keeping direct eye contact. The temperature in John's body was rising, he felt that he was slowly being filled with life. His heart began pounding and John responded by placing his hand over Sherlock's.  

Immediately Sherlock withdrew his hand, sat up entirely erect, stood up and made his way to the kitchen. "Tea?" he asked John without the slightest bit of concern. John, the heat in his body was slowly draining out of him, hadn't the slightest bit of energy to speak at a normal level, and when he attempted he failed. "No thank you," he tried. His mouth and throat was entirely ripped and bruised from the barrel of the gun. A few minutes later Sherlock walked back over to John, sat next to him and slowly dipped a washcloth into a bowl of hot water.  

He began to clean John's face. There was not a sound between them. John watched Sherlock as he carefully and so precisely dipped the cloth into the bowl and attended to John's wounds. Sherlock seemed to pay no heed to John, he was entirely focused on reclaiming John's appearance and health.  _Why didn't he do this while I was knocked out?_  John thought to himself. 

John began to feel a wave of dizziness and exhaustion. Although he had been unconscious, he was not in a rested state. The result of the assault had caught up with him. Sherlock finished cleaning John's face, and asked him what he needed. John replied in a raspy voice, "Sleep. I need to sleep." 

"Can you walk?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer but attempting to give John some sense of agency in the matter.  

John looked up at him, and didn't answer. He tried to lift himself off the ground, but fell backward and shouted in pain. "Fucking hell, my ribs are broken!" John rolled his head back onto the floor, and held his ribcage. Sherlock bent down and carefully slid his arms underneath John's body. He cautiously curled John up into his arms, and John grabbed onto Sherlock for support.  

"This is bloody embarrassing Sherlock," John whispered. 

"I would be more embarrassed for what is coming next." Sherlock responded with the smallest hint of laughter behind the veil of his sober demeanor. 

Sherlock lay John in his bed, and sat at the foot of his body. 

"You have to tell me what you need John, exactly as it should be. That is the only way this works for me." Sherlock stared directly into John's eyes waiting for a response. 

"Sherlock, I don't know what you are saying to me." He replied somewhat apologetically. 

"How do you sleep?" Sherlock asked.  

"On my right side usually," John remarked. 

"No John, I know how you sleep. It's very obvious in the way you pour your coffee and staple papers. Well, more in the sitting really. No matter. No. I am asking  _how_  you sleep." Sherlock stated with some urgency now.

_I am too tired and too broken to play this game. What is he getting on about?_  John thought. Then it occurred to him. It was three in the morning and Sherlock was still in his shirt and slacks. 

"A white tee and my boxer-briefs." John stated with confidence. 

He was sure this is what Sherlock was getting on about, and it was obvious to John now that he needed assistance.  

Sherlock rose from the foot of the bed and went over to John's dresser to get a white tee. Still facing the dresser Sherlock paused for a moment, his arms stretched along the length of the dresser. He asked "Will you be needing a clean pair of briefs?" 

"Yes." John managed to say without choking. He watched Sherlock like a hawk, followed his movements around the dresser and back to John's side. 

Sherlock opened the top drawer and took out a pair of John's red briefs, and walked over to him. He put the clothes on the nightstand and looked at John. 

"My shoes, first. Then my coat." John said. Sherlock quietly walked to the end of the bed and tugged at John's shoes to force them off. He made an executive decision to take off John's socks as well. Sherlock never wore socks to bed, so he felt that no one else should either. He placed the shoes near the bed, and began a dirty clothes pile on the floor. 

"Sit up if you can," he said to John, "I need to get your coat off without impacting your ribs." 

John slowly sat upright, and Sherlock unzipped his coat. He moved his own arms inside John's coat, sliding his hands down the length of the coat arms. Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on John's while he gradually unhinged John's body from the coat. With John's arms free from the restraint, Sherlock held his body and began to take off John's shirt. The blood which had been drying had begun to stick against John's skin. Sherlock switched his gaze to the shirt as he unbuttoned each set. Sherlock began at the bottom and worked his way to the collar. Once there he slid his hand under the collar, freeing John's neck. Disallowing his hand to linger there, Sherlock immediately fed John's arms through the shirt as he formerly had done with the jacket. 

It seemed to John to take hours getting two articles of clothing off. But Sherlock was meticulous, he didn't want to hurt John. After he had removed John's top shirt, he began to lift the bottom of his white under-tee. John watched as Sherlock stopped moving entirely, just staring at John's chest under the shirt. John remained silent, he thought against speaking, asking, inquiring why Sherlock had stopped or what had been going on between them for the last however the bloody fuck long it had been.  _This is the embarrassment. This is his reference._  John could only imagine that this was an experiment, or some ploy of Sherlock's to make John feel less than adequate or something like this. 

With this thought in mind John began to say softly "I can finish the res…" And just before he could complete his sentence Sherlock, with his eyes shut, still facing John's body, placed his long index finger over John's lips to quiet him.

Retracting his hand, Sherlock ran his fingers over the deep wound he had been looking at on John's ribs. As his fingers graced the lesion John buckled his body a bit and winced. Blood had been drying, but some was still fresh and Sherlock's fingers came back out slightly soiled. Sherlock took both of his hands and ran them up John's bloody, bruised chest. He lifted the shirt over John's head, exposing his own injury now to the room - John had not yet  _seen_ , but could only  _feel_  what had happened, but in this moment he fully realized his situation. 

Without delay Sherlock began to unbuckle John's belt, feeding it through the belt loops and carefully placing it out of sight. He loosened John's jeans, and tugged at them slightly around the thigh to encourage them off his body. John felt entirely exposed and uncertain of the experience.  _Oh God. What. Is. Happening._  John shut his eyes and looked to the ceiling, shaking his head momentarily.  _What is Sherlock Holmes doing to me_ _…for me. I have no answers._  John's thoughts were filled with excuses and attempts to convince himself of Sherlock's purpose. John was having trouble ignoring the rising warmth growing inside of him like a roaring fireplace in the dead of winter. 

Still staring at the ceiling, John opened his eyes when he realized the touch of Sherlock's balmy fingers removing his briefs. "No, please." John blurted out. And as he said this Sherlock immediately withdrew his hands, quickly stood up and took a pace backward from John.  


	5. Chapter 5

John, terrified of permanently isolating himself from Sherlock, rearranged his body to sit up, and stared in his direction. John looked at him up and down, noticing now small intricacies which he had not formerly seen. Sherlock's hands were open and tense next to his lean legs. His body was strained with tension, his posture was entirely erect, but he held his head a bit lower than usual.

Sherlock was clearly waiting for John to speak, to explain. "Sherlock, I…" John began, but was having trouble collecting his thoughts.

_What if I read too much into that?_

_Have I gone entirely mad?_

There were many ways John thought he could ruin their relations together, but always maintained a bit of hope that with his words, with his _actions_ \- he could change their bond for the better. 

Sherlock stared impatiently at John waiting for him to complete his thought.

"…I, um. Well…" _Oh God._  "I…" 

Sherlock stepped forward and stared at John for a moment. Suddenly his face contorted...his eyes were scanning John's back and forth, then, "I CAN NOT _READ_ YOU NOW JOHN," Sherlock roared inches from John's face. John, weak from the day's trauma, grabbed Sherlock's face and held his high cheekbones in his hands.

Sherlock, in a moment of weakness, immediately dropped to his knees at the bedside, they were now at eye level. Holding onto his face with all the strength that remained in his broken body, John looked into Sherlock's eyes and placed his forehead against his. Leaning into him, John shut his eyes whispering, "You are a coward Sherlock Holmes." 

Sherlock pulled backward from John. He contemplated the thought for a moment. _Fear is not a feeling. I am not a coward._ With a loose grin he grabbed a pillow and forcefully placed it over John's face. He pressed down on the pillow-top and moved his hands down to John's shoulders, gripping with pressure.

As he began to move to the base of the bed, Sherlock paused and graced his hand over John's, confirming his safety - allowing his hand to linger on his for only a moment. _This is different,_ John thought to himself _._  A rising fear was coupled with very real excitement - he felt no desire to remove the pillow himself and wanted to let Sherlock manage the situation he created. 

Standing at the base of John's body, Sherlock slid his fingers very slowly along the rim of John's briefs. An experience new to both of them, Sherlock was subtly logging his own feelings about the episode, yet the effect on John was evident. Sherlock leaned down slightly and blew air over John's skin. John shifted a bit at the sensation. Sherlock then gripped his briefs and pulled them up over the bulge on John's body, sliding them down his thighs, leaving them to hang around his ankles.

_John_. 

Sherlock stared down at him for a few moments - committing his body to memory, every silhouette, colour, and shape. Then he finally removed John's briefs from his ankles off his body. With care Sherlock took in his hands the new pair of briefs from the dresser and helped them onto John's body. He stood up and walked the length of his body. Sherlock ran his right hand along John's chest, over his wound, until he reached the pillow. He removed it from John's face and found him staring enormously wide-eyed at him. Sherlock leaned down to John and said, "Anything else you will be needing this evening?" John, struggling to find the words responded, "No, uhm…I, no. Thank you.."

"Goodnight John." And with that Sherlock shut off the light and disappeared from the room.


	6. Chapter 6

"Tea?" Sherlock asked hovering over John's bed. 

John roused himself enough to face the sound. His eyes were heavy, and his body was very sore. He sleepily questioned the figure, "Sherlock…?" 

"I am neither a _Yes, Please_  nor a _No, Thank you_. Tea, John? Tea?" Sherlock responded. 

"Quite good, okay then." John muttered as he let his body fall backward into bed. 

Sherlock placed the tea-tray at John's bedside and proceeded to pour a cup. 

"Did you sleep?" Sherlock questioned. "It doesn't feel like it," John responded. His voice was still raspy, and it was obvious that he was exerting effort to speak. 

Sherlock walked to John's blinds and opened them, cracking the window slightly to allow a cool breeze into the room. The air immediately cut the tension. 

"Did you sleep?" John asked in return. "Of course not," Sherlock replied hastily. "I was thinking." 

"About what?" Poised almost as begging, John's question made Sherlock turn around to face him. 

"Nothing." He answered and switched his glance to the door. "Tea John, tea."

Not enough effort to even roll his eyes, John attempted to sit upright to sip the tea. Each movement felt like someone was pulling his body down into a mud pile. Sherlock walked over to John's closet and pulled out his bathrobe. "Here," he said as he tossed it to the bed. "Get in this. I am going to start a fire." 

_Start a fire?_  John questioned to himself. _Why am I not surprised? Or, more importantly, why do I not care?_   _Right. Because it's Sherlock. If he starts a fire, Mrs. Hudson will deal with it. I can barely get into this bathrobe, let alone run down the fire escape._

John managed to get into the bathrobe with some difficulty, and slowly waltzed out into the living room. _Oh_. The fireplace was roaring and Sherlock was sitting in his chair with the headlines. John kneeled down to lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. Sherlock looked over the top of the paper down at John. "Where's your _tea_ John?" Sherlock got up and retrieved the tea from John's bedroom and placed it in front of him on the floor. "We are days behind on investigations. Lestrade is annoying me with his complaints. You _must_  recover." 

John could sense that Sherlock walked over to the window, and within moments he heard the sound of his violin. _He's thinking about something_ , John thought. He was warm by the fireside and hadn't the energy to stay awake. So he drifted off to sleep...

\----------------

John woke up to Sherlock's hand running over his back, " _John…Wake up…"_ John opened his eyes and silently nodded. 

Sherlock carefully picked John up and carried him into his bedroom.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock guided John to bed and helped him lay comfortably. He grabbed John's pillows and propped them upright, and pulled the sheets out from underneath him so that he could more easily get under the covers. John looked up at Sherlock with anticipation, "I, I may need some help." John remarked. "You've been sitting around the flat all day in your briefs and a bathrobe." Sherlock replied with a straight-face, not knowing what was expected of him. "I could use some help with this ointment. I can't quite reach the trouble areas." John insisted with his eyes and motioned toward the dresser with the ointment for his wounds.

Sherlock looked at the ointment, then looked back at John, then back at the ointment. 

"Right then." 

Sherlock walked up to the nightstand and picked up the ointment, inspecting it for a moment, then turned to John and sat by his side on the edge of the bed. 

"Where would you like it?" Sherlock quietly asked him averting his eyes from John.

"I need it on my ribcage quite certainly, but anywhere that there is pain...it would help." John answered with a hint of apology.  

John watched as Sherlock began to move closer to him. He placed his hand on John's stomach, staring for only a moment until he began to untie John's bathrobe. Sherlock slipped his right hand underneath the fabric and slowly loosened the material, exposing John's chest. With both hands he delicately pulled the bathrobe off of the top of John's body, knowing the rest would follow. 

John watched Sherlock as he uncapped the bottle of ointment and squeezed it out onto his slender fingers. John knew Sherlock hated these tactile sensations, and there was a part of him that enjoyed watching him teeter on the edge of discomfort, even though Sherlock seemed entirely in control. As Sherlock massaged the ointment between his fingers, he glanced at John out of the corner of his eye to see if he was watching. Sporting a small grin, Sherlock slowed down his movements, taking more ointment and immersing his fingers entirely. Just as Sherlock moved his hand to make contact with John's chest, John immediately put his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

The ointment was cool upon John's skin, since his body was already warm to the touch - he had been wrapped up for the majority of the day, and Sherlock had been forcing him tea at every hour. Sherlock outlined John's wound on his ribs with the ointment, lightly massaging it into his skin. John whimpered at the pain on and off, since Sherlock was entertaining John's threshold between the pain of the wound and the relief of the ointment. 

"You are very stiff." Sherlock casually remarked. "What? I, no I'm not." John responded wide-eyed, looking further down his body for confirmation. "John, roll-over. I must put the ointment on the backside of your ribcage." Sherlock said with a demanding tone. _Yes sir._ John thought to himself and slowly shifted his body to roll-over onto his stomach. Although John's ribs were fractured, as a doctor, a stubborn doctor, he preferred home-healing - and the pain of the experience was not something he was going to begin complaining about. 

Sherlock now pulled down the remainder of the bathrobe from John's arms and back, leaving it to cover his lower body only. Sherlock took a minute to register the image of John's back like a portrait in his mind. He tilted his head to the side to watch the way the light moved across and down his spine. Sherlock grabbed more ointment, rubbing it in his hands, he then applied it to John's back near his ribs. John inhaled at the contact. Since John could not see, each movement stimulated the next. Sherlock moved his body closer to John's and, still sitting upright, pressed himself into John with a slight force. 

 _Oh God_. John moved slightly to adjust his body. Sherlock stabilized his own body with his left arm straightened on the bedside, while his right hand moved across John's back. Sherlock pressed into John again, randomly applying bodily pressure which John could not decipher where it was coming from. Sherlock slid his lubricated hand between John's rib and arm, gently holding his wound. 

Retracting his hand, Sherlock proceeded to rub the extent of John's back. Sherlock did not enjoy _touching_  people. But John was not _people,_ he was John. And John was hurt. And Sherlock felt an overwhelming desire to care for him now. He took both of his hands and simultaneously stroked John's back up and down, using his spine as a guide. He applied pressure to John's shoulders and slowly ran his fingers up his neck and into the back of his hair. He leaned down next to John's ear and whispered, "Goodnight John."

"Sherlock," John said with some haste and asked, "Would you...stay?" 

He got up off of John's bed and walked around so that John could see his face. "Yes. I quite like your rug. I will just be needing a pillow," he said. Sherlock grabbed an extra pillow from John's bed, and walked back around to lay on the floor next to him. John hid his smile in his pillow, and began to move his body around, so that he was facing Sherlock's sleeping arrangement. 

Just before Sherlock lay down on the ground John said, "Sherlock…I, well, I need this bathrobe off." 

Sherlock looked down at his companion, now on his back, and felt a growing warmth throughout his body. He took a step toward John and grabbed the remainder of the bathrobe, giving it a short tug, and pulling it out from underneath John's arse.  

"No briefs I see," Sherlock commented as if making a menial observation. 

"It's Tuesday, the red briefs I only wear on Monday, and nothing on Tuesday I guess." John responded, trying to get a laugh out of his friend. 

"I'm not arguing." And as he said this Sherlock unbuckled his belt, slowly feeding it through the belt-loops, and tossed it to the side. His hands, still slightly soiled from the ointment, unbuttoned his pants, and dropped them to the floor, kicking them off to join the belt. 

 _Oh my bloody God._  John watched intently, not wanting to speak or move, in case Sherlock had a change of mind. 

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt tediously, and pulled it off his body, dropping it in the same pile as the belt and pants. He stood there, briefs and socks alone, in front of John - producing a small grin at the idea of John's arousal. Sherlock turned around, his back facing John, and bent over to take off his socks - tossing them into the same build up of clothes. Sherlock then stepped over to John's bedside. As Sherlock's package stood eye-level with John, he watched John's expression change from one of intrigue to incredulity. Sherlock then turned off the lamp and leaned down to whisper, "Goodnight John."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock lay down on the floor at John's bedside. He slept directly on the rug with one of John's pillows that he had taken. John pulled his blanket up over his body and settled in bed, his mind racing, but his body completely exhausted. 

"John?" Sherlock announced from the floor. "I'm cold." 

John opened his eyes and stared into the darkness in Sherlock's direction. "Okay. Well you can either put on your clothes, or you can come up here. Your choice." John replied with a loving indignance. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stood up, grabbed the pillow, and walked over to the other side of John's bed. He let himself under the covers, but faced away from John. "Goodnight John," he said. 

John grinned and almost immediately fell asleep. The window was cracked slightly ajar, and the cool November air slowly filled the room. Sherlock, sleepless as usual, now lay on his back, staring at the ceiling in John's bed. He was observing the new aural experience on the other side of the flat. _Pipes are louder on this side. Mrs. Hudson's television hum is additionally horrific. The dog three flats over barks when cars pass. How does John stand it?_

Hours must have past until Sherlock caught himself in the middle of thinking. His eyes had almost completely become acquainted with the darkness of the room. He turned his head to the right, facing John, listening to the low rasp in his breathing. _Good that will heal, what an awful sound._

Then Sherlock heard something else from John, something he hadn't ever heard before. He wasn't entirely sure how to categorize the sound. He leaned in closer, furrowing his brow in concentration. 

 _Mmmm. Oh bloody hell_. John moaned in his sleep. Sherlock watched John as he shifted his body, taking his hand and rubbing himself as he slept. Sherlock noticed John's breathing increase, his hands working faster under the covers. 

All of a sudden John stopped, he turned his body over - Sherlock noticed it was still painful for him to move - "Yes sir." John muttered out loud. When he turned facing Sherlock he had removed the covers from the top of his body. He was moaning softly, inches from Sherlock's face. 

 _What is going on?_  Sherlock was trying to understand what John was up to. Then John reached again below the covers, grabbing his cock and pulsing it in sync with his breathing. Sherlock watched John, his body clearly in pain from the attack, pleasuring himself unconsciously - maybe to mitigate the pain, Sherlock didn't know. 

The heat from John's body was immediately apparent to Sherlock, he watched each movement with astonishment. 

"What are you thinking about John?" Sherlock asked without expecting a response. 

John continued his low groans and unwittingly continued to massage his dick. A burning sensation rose up through Sherlock's body. He slipped his hand under the covers and began to touch himself, syncing up with John's movements. When John took a deep breath, Sherlock jerked harder. He moved his head in closer to John's to feel him breathing. As John's movements quickened again, Sherlock sped up equally. Sherlock was now breathing deeply, attempting to limit his volume. 

 _If John wakes…_ He thought to himself. 

John was whimpering under his breath, letting out small, short, seemingly calculated moans for Sherlock's pleasure. Then instantly John came, his cum shot into the bed sheets, splattering onto Sherlock. John's final moan roused him out of sleep, but Sherlock wanted to complete the job, regardless of John's awareness. In fact, there was something about John knowing that made Sherlock harder. He continued wanking faster, with short concentrated breaths, not like John's longer thoughtful ones.

John realized what had happened, and within seconds his severe embarrassment turned to empowerment. He listened to Sherlock's quiet, but forceful sounds and felt the movements of his body inches from his own. John, lacking all inhibitions, wiped the cum from his cock into his hand and grabbed Sherlock's dick. Lubricating it with his own juices, John stroked his companion's bulge, slowly, stopping around the head to pulse it. Still withholding sound, Sherlock's moans were barely audible, he placed half of his face into the pillow to buffer it. 

John understood Sherlock. Not all the time, but sometimes. Whether Sherlock thought he did or not was irrelevant. And John wasn't pressed to prove it either. But he recognized Sherlock's humility now, and replaced the sounds he knew Sherlock wanted to make with his own. 

As John placed more pressure on the shaft, he let out a whimper. He moved his face closer to Sherlock's so that he could hear more immediately John's groans. He took his hand off of his cock and slipped it down around his ball sack, cupping and massaging them. John's hand traveled down Sherlock's thigh, discovering his body's terrain. Then he retracted it and brought his hand back up to grip the shaft again. John moved his body to Sherlock's, skin touching skin, and Sherlock moved his hand over John's chest wound. John winced at the touch, but took his other hand to press Sherlock's harder onto the laceration. The pain moved like wildfire throughout his body, nerves traveling and screaming at the brain: _pain, pain, pain, pain, pain_. John began pulsing Sherlock's cock again, the more pressure Sherlock put on John's ribs, the harder John jerked. His small murmurs kept up with the momentum of John's groans, loud enough to please them both. Just as John could feel Sherlock's dick swell up in his palm, he came - his cock erupting like a slow, but dangerous lava-flow. As Sherlock's cum spilled out over John's hand, he stuffed his face into the pillow, abating the sound of his moan. John removed his hand from underneath the blankets, and brought it up to his mouth, steadily licking his cock sap from his fingers. Sherlock grabbed John's hand, intertwining their fingers, and thrusting them into John's mouth. John sucked their fingers dry, and when Sherlock pulled it out of John's mouth, they stared for a moment at each other through the dark veil separating their expressions. 

 _Hit by a train_. 

John's voice was emitted throughout the shadowy room, "Night Sherlock."


End file.
